"Yesterday morning poor Badger went down to Maidstone to look over a batch of prisoners for the assizes and see if there were any old acquaintances lurking under an alias. But principally his object was to inspect a man who had given the name of Frederick Smith, but whom he suspected of being a certain crook whose real name was unknown to us. We were a good deal interested in this man. For various reasons we associated him with a number of burglaries of a rather clever type—one-man jobs, which are always the most difficult to deal with if they are efficiently carried out. And we had something to go on in one case, for Badger saw the man making off. However, he got away, and neither he nor the stuff was ever traced. So our position was that here was a man whom we suspected of quite an important series of crimes, but who was, so to speak, in the air. He was not even a name. He was just a ’person unknown.’ Whether we had his finger-prints under some name we couldn’t guess, because nobody knew him by sight excepting Badger; and his opinion was that the man had never been in custody, and couldn’t be identified—excepting by himself."
"But," said I, "surely Badger could have put a description of him on record."
"M’yes," replied Miller. "But you know what Badger was like. So beastly secretive. One doesn’t like to say it now, but he really didn’t play the game. If he got a bit of information, instead of passing it round for the benefit of the force and the public, he would keep it to himself in the hope of bringing off a striking coup and getting some kudos out of it. And he did bring it off once or twice, and got more credit than he deserved. But to come back to this Maidstone business. Badger gleaned something from the reports concerning the prisoners there that made him suspect that this man, Smith, might be the much-wanted burglar. So down he went, all agog to see if Smith was the man he had once got a glimpse of."
"I shouldn’t think a recognition of that kind, based on a mere passing glance, would have much value as evidence," I objected.
"Not in court," Miller admitted. "But it would have had considerable weight with us. Badger had a devil of a memory for faces, and we knew it. That was his strong point. He was like a snapshot camera. A single glance at a face and it was fixed on his memory for ever."
"Do you know if he recognized the man?" Thorndyke asked.
"He didn’t," replied Miller, "for the man wasn’t there. In some way he had managed to do a bolt; and up to the present, so far as I know, they have not been able to find him. It is quite likely that he has got clean away, for, as he was wearing his own clothes, he won’t be very easy to track. However, Badger seems to have satisfied himself that the man was really the one he was looking for—probably he thought he recognized the photographs—and this morning he started for Town with the papers—the personal description, photographs, and finger-prints—for examination and comparison at the Criminal Record Office. But he never arrived; and about eleven o’clock his body was found near the middle of the Greenhithe tunnel. The engine driver of an up train saw it lying across the rails on the down side, and reported as soon as he got into Greenhithe. But it seemed that at least one train had been over it by then. I gather that—but there! I don’t like to think of it. Poor old Badger!"
"No," Thorndyke agreed sympathetically. "It is too horrible to think of. But still, as we have to investigate and ascertain what really happened, we must put aside our personal feelings and face the facts, terrible as they are. You spoke of his having been murdered. Do you know if there were any signs, apart from the mutilation caused by the train passing over him, that he had met a violent death? Is it clear that it was not an accident?
"Quite clear, I think," replied Miller. "I know nothing about the condition of the body, but I know that there was no open door on the off side of the train that he travelled by."
"That would seem to be conclusive," said Thorndyke, "if the fact can be established. But it isn’t always easy to prove a negative. A passenger, getting into an empty compartment and finding the door open, would naturally shut it and might not report the circumstance. The point will have to be enquired into."
"Yes," Miller agreed; "but I don’t think there is much doubt. You must remember that the train passed through Greenhithe station and past the signal boxes both there and at Dartford. An open door on the off side would be very noticeable from the down platforms. Still, as you say, the point will have to be settled definitely. Probably it has been by now. We shall hear what they have to say when we get to Greenhithe. But for my part I have no doubt at all, door or no door. Badger was not the sort of fool who leans out of the window of a moving train without seeing that the door is fastened. It is a case of murder, and the murderer has got to be found and dealt with."
If the Superintendent may have seemed to have formed a very definite opinion on rather slender evidence, that opinion received strong confirmation when we reached Greenhithe. Awaiting us on the platform were a detective sergeant and one of the senior officers from Maidstone Prison. They had travelled up from Maidstone together, apparently comparing notes and making enquiries by the way.
"Well, sir," said the Sergeant, "I think we can exclude the suggestion of accident, positively and certainly. It was unlikely on the face of it. But we have got some definite facts that put it out altogether. This officer, Chief Officer Cummings, whose duties include all matters relating to descriptions and records, handed to Inspector Badger the papers relating to the prisoner, Frederick Smith—finger-prints, description, and photographs—and saw him put them into his letter wallet. Now, I have been through that wallet with the greatest care, and there is not a trace of any of those papers in the wallet or in any of his pockets."
"Ha!" exclaimed Miller in a tone of grim satisfaction, "that settles it. I take it, Cummings, that there is no possible doubt that the Inspector had those papers in his pocket when he started from Maidstone?"
"Not a shadow of doubt, sir," replied Cummings. "I gave him the papers, carefully folded, and saw him put them into his wallet—just into the open wallet, as they were too large to go into the pockets without further folding. He stowed the wallet away in his inside breast pocket and buttoned his coat. And I can swear that it was in his pocket when he started, for I walked with him to the station and actually saw him into the train. He asked me to walk down with him, as there were various questions that he wanted to put to me respecting the prisoners, especially this man, Smith."
"Yes," said Miller, "we shall have to have a talk about Mr. Smith presently. But the fact that the Inspector had those papers on his person when he got into the train, and that they were not on the body, makes it certain that he was not alone in the carriage."
"It does, sir," the Sergeant agreed. "But apart from that, we have got direct evidence that he was not. The station-master at Strood gave us the particulars. The Inspector’s train stopped there, and he had to get out and wait a few minutes for the London train. The station-master saw him standing on the platform, and, as they knew each other, he went up to him, and they had a few words together. While they were chatting the London train came in and drew up at the platform. Inspector Badger was just moving off to find a compartment when a man came along from the entrance. As soon as the Inspector saw this man, he stopped short and stood watching him. The man walked rather quickly along the train, looking in at the windows, and got into an empty first-class smoking compartment. But the station-master noticed that, before he got in, he looked into each of the adjoining compartments, which were both empty. As soon as he had got in and shut the door after him, the Inspector wished the station-master ‘Good morning,’ and began to saunter slowly towards the compartment that the stranger had got into. A few paces away from it he stopped and waited until the guard blew his whistle. Then he walked forward quickly and got into the compartment where the strange man was."
"Could the station-master give you any description of the man?"
"No, sir. No description that would be of any use. He said he was a middle-aged man of about medium height, not noticeably stout or thin, moderately well-dressed in a
darkish suit, and wearing a soft felt hat. He thought that the man had darkish red hair and rather a red nose. But that isn’t very distinctive. And he thought he was clean-shaved."
"Did you ask him if he would know the man again if he saw him?"
"I did, sir, and he said that he might or he might not, but he didn’t think he would, and he certainly wouldn’t swear to him."
The Superintendent emitted a growl of dissatisfaction, and, turning to the Chief Officer, asked: "What do you say, Cummings? Does the description suggest anything to you?"
The officer smiled deprecatingly. "I suppose, sir, you are thinking of Frederick Smith, and it does seem likely. Smith certainly has darkish red hair and a reddish nose. And he is about that age and about that height and he hasn’t got a beard, and when I last saw him he was wearing a darkish suit and a soft felt hat. So it might have been Smith. But as the description would apply to a good many men that you might meet, it isn’t much good for identification."
"No," growled Miller, "not enough details. And now that the finger-prints and detailed description are gone, it might be difficult to prove his identity even if we should get hold of him."
"It isn’t as bad as that, sir," said Cummings. "As it happens, luckily, we have a duplicate of the finger-prints, at least of some of them. The officer who took the finger-prints made rather a mess of one of the rolled impressions. So he had to waste that form and start over again. Fortunately, the spoiled form wasn’t destroyed. So we’ve got that, and of course we’ve got the negatives of the photographs, and the officer who took the description can remember most of the items. There will be no difficulty in proving the identity if we can get hold of the man. And that ought not to be so very difficult, either. There are several of us who have seen him and could recognize him."
The Superintendent nodded. "That’s all to the good," said he; "but before we can recognize him we’ve got to find him. The train didn’t stop here, I understand."
"No, sir," the Sergeant replied. "The first stop after Strood was Dartford. We’ve been over there, but we had no luck. There were a lot of people waiting for the train, so the platform was pretty crowded, and it was not easy to see who got out of the train. None of the porters noticed any first-class passengers getting out, though there must have been one, for a first-class ticket was collected—from Maidstone."
"Maidstone!" exclaimed Miller. "Well, that couldn’t have been our man. He came onto the Strood platform from the entrance."
"So the station-master says. But the booking-office clerk there doesn’t remember issuing any first-class ticket, or any ticket at all to Dartford."
"Hm," grunted Miller. "Looks rather as if he didn’t get out at Dartford. May have chanced it and gone on to London. We must have all the tickets checked. Did you make any enquiries from the ticket collector?"
"Yes, sir. But it was no go. He hadn’t noticed any of the passengers particularly. Two or three of the men who passed out answered the station-master’s description more or less. Of course they would. But he didn’t really remember what any of them was like, and he couldn’t say whether either of them was a first-class passenger. I suppose he just looked at the tickets and didn’t see anything else."
"Yes," Miller agreed. "But we will go into this matter presently. We mustn’t keep these gentlemen waiting." He turned to Thorndyke and asked:
"What would you like to do first, Doctor? I suppose you will want to inspect the tunnel, and I should like you to take a look at the body."
"The body has been examined, sir," said the Sergeant, "by one of the local doctors. He was rather cautious in his opinions, but I understood that he found no marks of violence—no wounds or injuries excepting the accidental ones."
"Where is the body?" the Superintendent asked.
"In an empty store, sir, down below. They put it there out of sight until it could be moved to the mortuary."
Miller looked at us enquiringly, and Thorndyke reflected for a few moments.
"I think we had better take the tunnel first and see if we can pick up any traces from which we can gather a hint. It isn’t very likely. The inside of the carriage, if we could have identified and examined it, would have been more hopeful as a source of information. However, the carriage is not available and the tunnel is. Will it be safe to explore it now?"
As he asked the question he glanced at the station-master, who took out his watch and consulted it.
"There is a down train due in a couple of minutes," said he. "We had better let that go through. Then the line will be clear for a full hour on the down side."
"You have pretty long intervals," Miller remarked.
"We have," the station-master admitted, "but they will be a good deal shorter when the electrification is completed. At present only the steam trains come on from Dartford. There goes the signal."
We waited until the train had drawn up at the platform, discharged its two or three passengers and proceeded on its way. Then we walked on to the end of the platform, descended to the permanent way, and, marching in a procession, headed by the station-master, along the rough side-path, presently entered the mouth of the tunnel, advancing along the space between the down-side rails and the smoke-blackened wall.
There is always something rather eerie about a tunnel, even a comparatively short and straight one like that at Greenhithe, in which the light is never completely lost. It is not the obscurity only or the strange reverberating quality that the vaulted roof imparts to the voice. The whole atmosphere is weird and uncanny, there is a sense of remoteness from the haunts of living men, heightened by the ghostly, whispering sounds which pervade the air, confused and indistinguishable echoes from the far-away world of light and life.
The light from the entrance followed us quite a long way, throwing our indefinitely elongated shadows into the twilight before us until they were lost in the deeper gloom ahead. Gradually, the warm glow of the station-master’s lantern and the whiter circles of light from the electric lamps carried by Thorndyke and the Superintendent replaced the dwindling daylight and told us we were approaching the middle of the tunnel. The combined lights of the three lamps illuminated the ground with a brilliancy that was accentuated by the encompassing darkness, lighting up the rails and sleepers and the stones of the ballast, and bringing into view all the little odds and ends of litter that had been jettisoned from passing trains; scraps of newspaper, match-boxes, spent matches, cigarette-ends—trivial by-products of civilized human life, insignificant and worthless, but each scanned attentively by six pairs of eyes.
It was in the heart of the tunnel that Miller remarked, in a hollow voice with an accompaniment of chattering echoes:
"Someone has chucked away a pretty good cigar. Shocking waste. He hasn’t smoked a quarter of it."
He spoke feelingly, for it was just the type of cigar that he favoured: a big, dark-coloured cigar of the Corona shape. Thorndyke let the light from his inspection lamp fall on it for an instant, but he made no reply, and we continued our slow progress. But, a few moments later, I suddenly missed the light from his lamp (we were marching in single file and he brought up the rear of the procession), and, looking round, I saw that he had gone back and was in the act of picking up the cigar with his gloved left hand. As he evidently did not wish his proceedings to be noticed by the others, I continued to walk on at a slightly reduced pace until he overtook me, when I observed that he had carefully enclosed the cigar in two of the seed envelopes that he invariably carried, and was now tenderly wrapping it in his handkerchief before disposing of it in his breast pocket.
"Any special significance in that cigar?" I asked.
"It is impossible to say," he replied. "A half-smoked cigar must have some significance. It is for us to see whether it has any significance for us."
The answer was a little cryptic and left me with the suspicion that it did not really disclose the motive for his evidently considered act. To one unacquainted with Thorndyke and his methods of research, the salving of this
scrap of jetsam must have appeared entirely foolish, for there seemed no more reason for taking and preserving this cigar than for collecting the various empty match-boxes and cigarette that lay strewn around.
But I knew Thorndyke and his ways as no one else knew him. I knew that it was his principle to examine everything. But the word "everything" has to be construed reasonably. There was always some selection in the objects that he examined; and I had the feeling that this cigar had presented to him something more than its mere face value.
So I reflected as we walked on slowly, scanning the ballast by the light of our lamps. But no other object came into view to engage our attention until we reached the spot where the tragedy had occurred. Here we halted with one accord and stood looking down in silence at the gruesome traces of the disaster. Miller was the first to break the silence.
"There seems to have been a lot of blood. Doesn’t that suggest that he was alive when the train went over him?"
"Yes," replied Thorndyke, "in a general way, it does. But we shall be able to judge better from an examination of the body." Then, turning to the station-master, he asked: "How long could he have been lying on the line when the down train came along?"
"Not more than a minute," was the reply. "Perhaps not that. The two trains passed in the tunnel."
"And how was the body lying? You came with the search party, I think?"
"Yes, I directed the search party. The body was lying across the rails slantwise with the feet towards the Greenhithe end. It was lying nearly on its back. But, of course, the train passing over it may have changed its position. Still, it is rather curious that the feet should have been pointing that way. If a man steps out of a moving train, his feet come to the ground and catch, and he flies forward head first. The position of the body almost seemed to suggest that he fell out head downwards."
Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus Vol 6 Page 7
